


The Scars of Magic

by yellow_ferrari



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Lesley's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_ferrari/pseuds/yellow_ferrari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry Potter found out that magic was real, there was a cuddly giant with an umbrella wand. And a birthday cake. When Lesley May found out that magic was real, there was a series of gruesome murders. And a dead baby. Screw Harry Potter, to be honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scars of Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ironed_orchid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironed_orchid/gifts).



> Yuletide gift for ironed_orchid, I hope you enjoy! Happy Holidays!
> 
> (this is set approximately during Whispers Underground or maybe between Moon Over Soho and Whispers Underground, there are no specific timeline things in this, it's just Lesley living her strange new life ~)

Lesley's face hurts all the time. It hurts 24/7. Sure, some days the pain is worse, some days it's better. But it always hurts. The pain is a constant background noise and it never, ever stops. Lesley's skin is always crawling. Almost literally. It's like pins and needles on acid.  
There is absolutely nothing good about the pain. About the disfigurement. About the face mask and about the stares by absolutely bloody everybody Lesley ever meets. There is nothing good about it.

But there _is_ the magic.

Lesley can't decide if the magic is a good thing or a bad thing. It's a thing, in any case. A thing that needs to be dealt with. And this thing, it's directly and intrinsically linked to the face and the pain and the stares by strangers. So naturally, Lesley has mixed feelings about the magic. It's exciting, dizzying, as new things tend to be, especially new things like goddammned _magic_ and... well, she doesn't hate it. It gives her abilities she never thought she'd ever have, it gives her a way to defend herself against things no one else can defend themselves against. But if she could trade it, return the magic and have her normal, healthy, _painless_ face back, she'd do it in a heartbeat. 

She doesn't tell Peter how bad the pain really is, but Lesley suspects Peter probably knows. Or approximates knowledge and understanding in that particular way only he can. Peter, who was born with magic, in contrast to how Lesley's magic was _made_. Brutally and against her will. He doesn't really get it. It's not that Peter doesn't try and isn't compassionate, he tries his best. But he blames himself for what happened to Lesley. Blames himself more than she'd like, but she can't help that, either. It's not his fault, not really. But perception of guilt is almost as bad as actual guilt. His guilt, her pain, everyone has their cross to bear. Some crosses just leave more visible scars than others. Sometimes all over your bloody face. 

When Harry Potter found out that magic was real, there was a cuddly giant with an umbrella wand. And a birthday cake. When Lesley May found out that magic was real, there was a series of gruesome murders. And a dead baby. Screw Harry Potter, to be honest.  
So. Lesley had her face irreparably melted off and now she can do magic. That's a development that she can't say she saw coming. But she wouldn't be the excellent copper that she is if she didn't take this as a challenge, as something to investigate. 

Not everything is about the pain, though. Or at least, it shouldn't be. It _can't_ be. Not for her. Lesley May is not a victim. Well. Or at least she's not someone with a victim complex. Of course she's a victim. But she'll be damned if she lets this define her. And she knows that she can't make her entire life about the pain and the injuries. She's a copper still, after all. Police officers get hurt. It's a peril of the job. Sure, they don't get hurt quite the way Lesley did, but every copper who's ever been shot or otherwise injured on the job, knows what this is like. This period of time. The aftermath. You want to get back out there, but you can't yet, not really. You're being kept on the sidelines. Lesley thinks she should be coming up on the end of this period, but her case is special anyway, considering her consulting doctor is a cryptopathologist. She doubts anyone else even knows what the hell that is. Maaaan, her life is weird.  
Lesley's moved into The Folly now, at least. Is she crazy when she interprets this as a good sign? As progress? All she wants to do it go back to doing her job. Because she is just so _damn_ good at it. 

The Folly is an insane place, unnecessarily vast and intricate and full of secrets. It's an old place, steeped in history and the aura of a long line of long-dead practitioners who've passed through here. But for all that, it's clean. Spotless. Molly's doing, Lesley suspects. Molly, who might be a vampire. Or a demon. Or a ghoul. Or a ghost. Oooooh, maybe Molly isn't even really there, maybe she's just an apparition. Or an anthropomorphic representation of the house.

Yeah. Ok. Probably not that. That's probably reserved for rivers. She did say her life was weird, right? Good. Just making sure.

But Molly _is_ strange. Helpful and a good cook (well, it's a matter of taste, but Lesley has definitely tasted worse cooking) and surprisingly fond of Nightingale, though.  
This morning, Molly had washed and ironed all of Lesley's clothes and put them on the dresser in her room while Lesley was having breakfast with Peter and Nightingale. The clothes now all smell vaguely of old-fashioned detergent and they're starched to within an inch of their lives. But they are definitely clean. The white shirt Lesley is wearing now is so clean, in fact, that she just got startled by its reflection in the hall mirror.

Wait, what hall is she even in? Lesley seems to have become slightly lost in the endless corridors of The Folly. So much for being a brilliant copper.  
The mirror is there though and it gives her pause. Blonde hair in a messy ponytail, blue eyes, reasonably tall (she's definitely taller than her sisters, which always gave her the edge in childhood catfights), skinny (eh, skinny-ish, there's always room for improvement), probably quite attractive, at least if you ask Peter. Massive facial scarring, burns, lumps and bruises, hidden behind a half-mask. It's part of her now, this face. The first time Lesley saw herself in the mirror after the first operation (there were several), she cried for two hours. Now she looks in the mirror and what she sees is a person she recognizes. This is her now. Lesley May looks in the mirror and sees Lesley May. That. Huh. That is a huge step forward. She's been seeing a therapist to deal with the trauma (minus, obviously, talking about any of the magic stuff) and in their next session she's going to bring this up. Her therapist will tear up (she's weepy) and be effusively proud of Lesley and it's all going to be awkward as hell. But it's progress. Never underestimate progress. 

There's a yapping sound coming from somewhere around the corner and it turns out not to be a mystical yapping ghost (you never know!), but just plain old Toby. Well. If there's anything plain about a dog with magic detection abilities.  
Toby is busy chasing something and, having come up on a locked door with a 'No Access' sign, yapping at it in that adorable, futile way that little dogs have. There are quite a few locked doors in The Folly. Quite a few secrets. Places that Lesley and Peter are not allowed to go. Or maybe not allowed to go _yet_. And naturally, Lesley is curious and wants these doors unlocked, wants access, wants no more secrets, wants truth. But this particular door is giving off a vibe. Something sinister and eerie. A protective instinct kicks in and Lesley picks up Toby and takes him in her arms. His yapping seizes. Wow, yeah. Yikes. Let's not investigate this door any further.  
Later she will think how weird that was, this feeling of impending doom and the certainty that if she opened that door, something awful would happen. There was nothing special about that door whatsoever. Magic, probably. That's her explanation for everything these days. Either there was a spell on the door that made it repel people and stop them from going through it or it was her own magic manifesting in an act of self-preservation and stopping her from going inside. Both would explain Toby's yapping. 

After taking yet another weird turn into yet another unfamiliar hallway, Lesley finally comes across a stairway she recognizes. And across a certain lovable, if slightly lazy and reckless, copper she recognizes, coming downstairs. 

“Hey, where have you been? And why do you have Toby on your arm, he can walk just fine, you know?”

Peter does this on purpose, Lesley thinks sometimes. Annoy her in that slightly aggravating, but ultimately harmless way that's his specialty. Maybe he hopes it'll get a rise out of her. Or one of those epic eye-rolls that she used to be so good at, pre face mask. Maybe she should try working on getting her eye-roll game back up to her old standard. If nothing else, it would make Peter happy. 

“Oh, you know, just exploring. Investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

Peter is distractedly re-assembling his phone, a tell-tale sign that he's just come from practicing spells. And it looks like he's carrying his duffel bag and a packed lunch (Molly's work, most certainly). Nightingale probably has him out on assignment.

“Just investigating my very, very weird life.”

Peter smirks. “Want it to get even weirder? If you can be ready in 5 minutes, Nightingale says you can tag along on my assignment. I'm not saying demon ghost strip club, but I'm also not saying _not_ demon ghost strip club. If you know what I mean.”

“Sure, just let me get changed, I'll be right down.”

Lesley delicately sets Toby down on the floor and the small dog immediately whizzes off into the general direction of the kitchen. Oh to be a dog. Sausages, belly rubs and chasing your own tail. That's the life. But maybe she shouldn't be thinking this. Who knows, she might go to bed tonight and wake up as a dog tomorrow morning. You never know in this strange new world. You never really know anything. She'd rather stay human, thank you very much. A flawed human, insecure and out of her depth, with painful scars and scary magic she doesn't quite understand yet and maybe never will. But a human, nevertheless. A copper. And finally, it seems, a copper back on active duty, no longer sidelined.  
Lesley May, WPC in the Metropolitan Police, off to investigate a demon ghost strip club. Because of course she is. Her life is weird. But it's her life now. And truly, she knows, peak weirdness has not even remotely been reached. It's weird and it's gonna get weirder. But Lesley is ready. 

When she heads out the door, her face twinges particularly badly. Lesley's face will always hurt. Likely forever. A constant reminder of what her new life is like. Painful and scary and weird. But also exciting and ridiculous and full of magic. Because for what it's worth, Lesley is at least 97% sure that Harry Potter never once went to a demon ghost strip club. Hah. Take that, Harry Potter.


End file.
